


Haunting Temptation

by FairDrea



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (TV 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairDrea/pseuds/FairDrea
Summary: Movieverse with a twist - Lydia returns to Winter Rivers, an empty home, and an enraged poltergeist bent on destruction...or was it seduction? One look at what she's become and Beetlejuice isn't entirely sure revenge is what he's out for. Adult themes and language.





	1. Home to Nothing

** A/N:  ** Hello all! Well, I've never stumbled into this fandom before but I LOVE Beetlejuice and was suddenly obsessed with the thought of writing a fic. Once I got started, it was almost like a drug that I just couldn't set down. I'm throwing this out as kind of a test – to see if I get any interest, to see if I step on any toes (unintentional, I promise) or to see if I'm out of my league. So enjoy! Let me know if I should continue on or if I should take a hike, lol.

** Disclaimer: **  I do now own Beetlejuice and make no profit from the writing of this fic.

** Chapter One: Home to Nothing **

Lydia Deetz walked through the empty house, her dark eyes scanning over remnants of her past, peaking out desolately from under a thin layer of dust. Adam's usual choice of music didn't fill the house. Barbara didn't move from room to room fussing over changes she couldn't make. They used to…but no longer. Now the house stood empty and deathly quiet. Her parents had long ago closed up the place, leaving yet another "vacation home" that would remain untouched behind and forgotten. And the Maitland's – her stomach clenched slightly – the Maitland's would no longer need this place. They'd been given a rare gift from Juno after years and years of paperwork and arguments. They'd been given the gift of freedom.

The couple had made contact with her only after the formalities had been finalized. It has been…what, a week ago now? It was hard to believe it had all happened in a matter of a week when the process itself to allow Adam and Barbra their freedom had taken years. She could still remember receiving the message – sitting in her two bedroom apartment, curled up on the couch with a glass of red while pouring through digitals from a recent photo shoot for a prestigious client. What to edit, what not to edit, what to throw out entirely…and then her television had flickered on. Just like that. The silence of the evening had been interrupted by the low hiss of static. White and black chased each other across the wide screen. She stared at it, a chill snaking its way over her skin. For a minute she had thought…

But then she heard the soft call of Barbara's voice. It wove its way through the steady drone of static, asking her to come home, saying it was important. Had it been Adam, she might have hesitated. Had it been any other poltergeist, she may have told them to piss off entirely. But it was Barbara and the woman had always been somewhat of a mother to her where Delia had failed. She had responded immediately to the breathy plea, dropping her camera on the couch and rushing to her room to throw some belongings in a bag before tearing out of the apartment.

The drive wasn't long from Hartford to Winter River – an hour and a half, an hour with the way she was driving. Something in the tone of Barbara's voice…something was off. It wasn't wrong…but it most certainly wasn't right.

As she drove, she tried to think of the last time she had visited. It had been…over four months ago at the least. It was slightly jarring to realize how her visits to the house had grown so scarce over the past year. It was the usual adult excuses – settling into her new life, just too busy, work-related things came up. Of course, they had. Her career in photography had taken off years ago. The demand for her work was high. And given the none-too-pleasant near envious reaction of her step-mother after Lydia's sudden fame for artistic flare through photography, Lydia hadn't exactly made it easy for anyone to contact her, living, dead or otherwise.

But she  _had_  made visits. She had kept Barbra and Adam well informed of what was going on in her life from graduation, to college, to her new career. Over the course of ten years she had made sure that they knew probably more than her own father and step-mother would ever know.

Now though…now it didn't feel like it had been  _near_  enough. With a sick twisting in her stomach, she moved from the part of the house was that predominantly her families to what had once been Adam and Barbara's. The only sound that accompanied her was the sharp, echoing click of her heels against the hardwood floor. The sound tore at her, made her feel a sickening sense of solitude in a home where she'd  _never_  been alone. Hot tears momentarily blurred her vision as she stalled over the threshold to Adam and Barbara's rooms, the scent of modeling glue, paint and sawdust assailing her senses immediately. A trembling hand reached up, combing the length of her angled bob back and away from her pale face. Out of everything she had expected to come home to, out of every scenario she had turned over in her head….a funeral had not been one of them.

That's what it had been, though. Barbara's tone, the way it had slaked over her nerves and prompted a sudden and thoughtless move to throw a week's worth of clothes into a bag and just drive without thinking, the sense of unease…

Barbara had been calling her home for a funeral…. _their_  funeral.

The ceremony, held just as the sun threatened to spill its bright rays over the thin blanket of snow shrouding the graveyard, had been brief – a ritual of sorts in the afterlife, performed in the very cemetery Adam and Barbara has been buried. There had been few words, a tearful goodbye between her and the two people she considered family. The man officiating had, oddly enough, been the same corpulent ghoul that had overseen the joke of a ceremony between her and…

She shook her head, scowling at the memory. She wouldn't think the name. She  _couldn't._ Not right now – not when the feeling of loss was so consuming, not when her heart ached as much as the heart of the young woman who had come to this house had before meeting the Maitlands. She was alone…again. She was older, wiser, she was finally comfortable with who she was and confident in her work. But…she was…alone.

"Utterly…alone," she whispered harshly, remembering the naïve words of a young woman who'd so foolishly contemplated suicide as a means to an end.

She ran her fingers over the much expanded town model Adam had poured his soul into, smiling at the detail. He'd been such a perfectionist when it came to his project, asking every day if there were new establishments, new houses, or anything of the like being constructed. She whispered his name softly, then turned from the model and, with quick footsteps, left the room. Tomorrow she would come back here, try to clean up the dust left behind. Tonight…it would just be salt in an open wound.

With a shuddering sigh, she made her way upstairs to her old room. The second her hand touched the banisters, horrifying memories of the night the resident poltergeist had tormented her family came rushing back. She drew away as if the wood itself bad burned her, sucking in a startled breath. Her dark gaze remained fixed on the newel post, almost as if she were waiting for a replay, waiting for the serpentine skin to reappear, for the sadistic, feral glow of  _his_  eyes.

And then another memory…this one more recent…and far more terrifying.

She had been home for Christmas break during her first semester in college. What was supposed to be a cheerful time of year for family gatherings and festivities became a true nightmare. And it was a nightmare that only she knew of. She hadn't breathed a word of it to anyone – not even Barbara and Adam.

The first night she had been home, she had been readjusting to her room, trying to ignore the distasteful hints at "better" décor Delia had left scattered about. And then he was just…there. In her mirror of all places, leering at her and leaning against the frame as if he'd been waiting for her.

"Beetlejuice," she whispered faintly, unaware of the word slipping past her lips. She stepped back, and once more until she felt the wall at her back. She sagged against it, her mind replaying a scene that should have never been.

He'd come to "seal the deal" as he so eloquently put it. She'd made a promise and had yet to hold up her end of the bargain. Her failure to do so had landed him in Afterlife purgatory.

" _You owe me."_

" _I owe you_ nothing,"  _Lydia hissed, clenching her teeth and glaring._

_ Beetlejuice glared right back, his haunting onyx eyes burning. "Wrong, babes." He straightened and fear sliced through her. For one terrifying moment, she thought he would come through the very glass that held him. "We made a deal." _

" _If you're expecting me to hold up to my end of that deal, I feel the need to point out that you didn't exactly hold up to yours."_

" _Hey, they're still around, aren't they?"_

" _No thanks to you."_

" _Listen Lyds…a deal's a deal. You promised me a way out of this shit hole. Now deliver!"_

" _Or what?"_

" _Don't test me…"_

But she had. And her entire week had been full of him tormenting her, taunting her, threatening her. He'd been ruthless…and something inside of her, something that made her sick frightened and any other horrible emotion she couldn't put a name to…had craved it. At first she had thought there was just some kind of strange imbalance of spiritual energy sifting through the house that her overactive imagination and profound connection to the other world was feeding off of. And she fought it. She fought it just as hard as he had fought her. In the end…they'd both lost…miserably.

It took her a year – a full year to realize what the problem had been, why she had put herself in positions to be in the same room as him, why she didn't fight the nagging curiosity. It was her heart – her stupid, traitorous heart. A heart that had mystified her by falling for a…a crude, filthy, obnoxious, threatening  _poltergeist_. That wasn't even normal!

_ But then again… _

She sighed and pushed herself away from the wall, starting up the stairs once more. She never had been normal. Sure, she had tried. She had tried with good grades and semi-decent friends that she'd grown apart from after leaving for college. She had  _tried_  to be normal and all that had resulted in was misery. She wasn't normal. She accepted that now. She was Lydia Deetz and after careful soul searching and self-discovery, she knew that she would never live up to what society deemed normal. Her two best friends, after all, were ghosts. And she was…irrevocably addicted to a poltergeist who had nearly destroyed her family, who had nearly killed her father, who had  _forced_  her into a pathetic sham of a marriage. The words she could use to describe just how unholy and repulsive he was added up to an impressive list. So why,  _why_  could she still remember the feel of his hand against her mouth, his arm pressing into her side and the shocking, horrifying way her skin had sizzled at the contact, the pleasant flip of her stomach, the initial knee-jerk reaction of lust slithering through her like a fiery snake.

"Damn it," she sighed, shoving the door to her room open. Her bag of belongings sat against the closet door which yawned into a half empty closet full of her old clothing. Having not taken the time to before, she stepped into it, looking over visual reminders of the girl she once was. Everything was black…black or varying shades of gray. She glanced down at what she wore now – a pair of fitted dark blue jeans that hugged her legs down to her ankles, stylish black boots that came to mid-calf, a deep red cowl neck sweater that brushed her thighs and a chunky black, lace and leather belt draped around her waist. Definitely not the same style as her younger self.

She turned from a closet full of confusing memories. A shower…that would help her feel better – wash off the tears, maybe scrub away at some of the lingering sorrow. Come to think of it, she hadn't showered in…what, three days now? With the sudden news and short amount of time she was able to get with Adam and Barbara before they passed on…the thought of showering hadn't really entered her mind.

She slid the belt free as she crossed the floor to the four poster bed opposite the closet. With a flick of the wrist, it landed at the edge, catching the footboard. Her sweater quickly followed and she continued out of her room and into the bathroom across the hall, pulling a towel from the hallway closet. She didn't bother shutting the door. She was the only one there. What was the point of shutting the door? After running the tap to a temperature just shy of scalding, she slipped out of her jeans and underwear, then stepped into the welcome steam with a long sigh.

She could feel the accumulated grime of the past few days wash off of her. Dropping her head back, she let it do just that, closing her eyes and trying not to think, not to remember. But everywhere the scalding water touched, every drop that rained over her and pelted her skin made her remember  _his_  touch, the horribly lewd and inappropriate things he would say to her that would secretly make her body ache, the strange, haunting green tint in his dark eyes. With a muttered oath, she gave herself over to it, knowing there was no use trying to deny anything anymore. She was old enough and could no longer fall back on the excuse of teenage naivety. She was certainly smart enough to understand her own emotions, regardless of how twisted and confusing they were.

That didn't mean she couldn't be frustrated with said emotions. Glowering, she quickly washed her hair and finished with her shower, then threw the shower curtain back with an agitated jerk. She pulled the towel from the rack beside the shower, using it to towel off her face and hair. As she did so, she glanced up and went impossibly still. Her limbs were suddenly numb. And not just numb, but a cold, chill-you-to-the-bone numb that started from her fingertips and worked its way with frightening speed through the rest of her body. Her breath shuddered to a stop, her wide eyes fixated on the fogged over mirror. Rubbed into the steamy residue was a simple statement…a command. Fear and excitement rushed through her as she stood absolutely still, reading the words over and over in complete disbelief.

_ Say it….I dare you. _

She didn't. She couldn't. She could hardly think past the simple thought of "he's here." She clutched the towel to her chest. She was shivering…though whether it was from the chill of winter seeping in through the insulated walls or from the forbidden thrill of seeing the message, she didn't know.

_ Lyyyydiiiiaaaa…. _

She released a small, startled cry at the sound of her name being hissed. It sounded almost as if…as if it were floating along on the lingering tendrils of steam around her feet. She glanced down, half afraid she would be staring down into a shallow pool of blood or something far more vile…something more  _him._ However, there was nothing.

The sound of the medicine cabinet being opened and slammed shut drew her attention back to the mirror and although she hated herself for it, she jumped and pushed herself back against the slick wall of the shower. The message was gone – replaced by a new one.

_ You still owe me. _

"I owe you shit," she muttered. Angrily, she wrapped the towel around her frail body and stalked out of the bathroom. God, she wasn't alone in the house. He was there…but how  _there_  was he? Was he there like he'd been in Adam's model? Was he there like he'd been there in the mirror the last time she'd seen him? What were the boundaries…what were the rules? Her eyes narrowed speculatively and she quickly veered away from her bedroom, going for her father's old study instead. It may have been a long shot, but she was hoping the Handbook was still tucked into the middle drawer of her father's desk. Maybe it would have some answers…or….something. Something useful that would distract her from the disturbing tumult of emotions concerning the self-proclaimed "Ghost with the most."

She flipped on the desk lamp and pulled the drawer open, rummaging through discarded bills, paperwork and various notes on property that her father had left behind. "Where the hell is it…" she muttered. A few moments more of digging and a grin passed over her face as her hand brushed over the spine of a small tomb. "Got it."

Pulling the book free, she bumped the drawer shut with her hip and looked down at the rather dated illustration on the front cover. She could only hope that the contents would be slightly reassuring, even if the book was meant for the deceased.

A quick trip downstairs to fill a wine glass with red wine and she was back in her room. She set the glass on her nightstand, pulled the cord to turn the lamp on and quickly changed into a clinging black silk top and a pair of simple blue and green cotton panties. All the while, she couldn't help wondering…was he watching her? Was he seeing the woman she now was, the changes, the curves? She glared at the treacherous thoughts even as her blood ran hot and her stomach quivered almost pleasantly.

With a self-depreciating sigh, she combed her damp hair with agitated fingers and flopped down on her bed. A quick rummage through the discarded jeans at the side of her bed procured a lighter and cigarette. Settling back against the headboard, she flipped the Handbook open, propped it on her upturned knees, then lit her cigarette and exchanged the lighter for the glass of red patiently awaiting her attention.

Her eyes began to skim the words, half-interest quickly transcending into something that bordered dangerously on avid obsession.

_ Tsk, tsk, tsk…what a filthy habit. _

She snorted, not bothering to look up from her reading. "This coming from you. That's rich."

_ Whacha readin' that for? Still lookin' to join the afterlife party? _

"Not even in the slightest."

She read on in blissful silence for only a moment, flipping through the pages faster, skimming sections that provided her with nothing helpful.

_ Ya might want to ash that-. _

This time she did glance up, startled to see her cigarette half-gone, the collected ashes teetering dangerously. She tapped it against the small ashtray beside her and took a drag, stretching her legs, letting the book lay open on her lap and forgotten for a moment. Her eyes scanned the empty room. "Thanks," she finally conceded.

_ No prob. So what's the deal? House seems kinda empty-. _

Lydia snorted softly, resting her head against the headboard. She must be going insane. Sitting alone in her room, talking to herself, hearing a voice she vaguely recognized from a past she was fighting to forget.  _Just tired,_  she told herself, which was the truth. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep and tears. Still…she continued to talk, finding an odd comfort in her delusion. "You're dead. You should know all about what happened, shouldn't you?"

_ Maybe…maybe not. Why don't ya tell me? _

She yawned hugely and allowed her eyelids to drift shut. "Adam and Barbara…" a bitter smile passed over her face. She chose to mock him, though she didn't understand why. "Dead, dead, deadski-."

_ Smart ass. _

"Must have picked it up from you-."

_ Whatever. Always were a sadistic little death-stalking bitch. _

She laughed softly. She'd been called worse…much worse. She ground out her cigarette, then reached over and placed the ashtray and now empty glass of wine on the nightstand. "Adam and Barbara were granted complete freedom. I came home for their…funeral," she muttered, sinking further into the pillows.

_ Bummer… _

"Yeah…bummer," she intoned. Sleep clawed gently at her, tugging, lulling…until finally with a soft sigh, she succumbed.

The house settled, playing its usual creaking cadence and the furnace clicked, then hummed to life, vents in the hallway and in her room rattling softly. Lydia's brows drew together and she shifted to her side. At the foot of her bed, the thick quilt folded neatly took on a life of its own, levitating a scant breath away from the bed and sliding over Lydia's sleeping form.

_ You've changed, kid… _

Her only response was a muffled sigh. Beside her, the chain on the lamp clinked lightly against the black lacquer lamppost. There was a soft, metallic grating sound as it was pulled by an unseen hand, and the room was plunged into darkness.


	2. Intriguing

**Chapter Two: Intriguing**

He drummed his red polished nails against the scarred surface of the table placed below a large, age-fogged mirror. His narrowed eyes watched the woman sleeping on the bed with a uncultivated mix of irritation, spite and curiosity. His mind was having difficulty wrapping itself around the fact that it was the same Lydia Deetz he'd known from years ago – the same one he'd threatened, the same one he'd tried to coerce into marriage, into owning up to her end of their little deal, the same one that had stood by with a dumb, vacant look on her face when that Maitland bitch had sicced a fucking sandworm on him.

A large beetle stupidly chose that moment to scuttle past him. Without taking his gaze from the woman, he slammed his hand down with much more force than necessary, effectively cutting the bugs life short. A quick toss and the oozing insect found its way into Beetlejuice's mouth where it was carelessly crunched on with only a modicum of the usual interest.

He leaned forward further, stopping just shy of pressing his nose against the cool surface of glass. Who  _was_  she? The Lydia Deetz he knew was naïve. She held herself to morals far higher than most people he knew. Then again, most people he knew were dead and scoundrels in their own right. Those that weren't…they were boring and not entirely worth his time unless he was scaring the ever-loving hell out of them.

Lydia Deetz then? Small, slightly pitiful, dark and cryptic, easily manipulated by the dead. The few years that passed in between the night of their "wedding" and the time in which he visited her again to demand that she held up her part of their bargain hadn't done much of anything to change her. She had a bit more of a backbone but still held onto that image and the body of an underdeveloped teenager.

Lydia now? This smoking, drinking, cocky, self-assured… _woman_? She was something else. She had attitude, she had malice and he had a feeling she was only giving him a glimpse of just how much of each she had. And the body? He would have to be a goddamn blind eunuch to not appreciate the way that body curved in every single place that would drive a man insane. She was still pale, though not as sickly pale as she had been when she was younger. The dark circles under her eyes had vanished. Maybe she'd just been using make-up for that effect. Knowing the Lyds back then…it was a possibility.

She rolled over onto her back, moving one arm over her head. The glossy raven tresses slid like water away from her closed eyes. The silk top slid dangerously lower, pulling taut over her right breast.

"Fuck me…" he breathed, inching closer to the mirror.

Wait…what the hell was he doing? Lusting after  _her?_  Lydia Deetz? The girl who owed him a one way ticket the fuck out of here and wasn't complying? He growled and shoved away from the mirror, spinning to face the vacant, cobweb draped confines of his room. The only lust-filled thoughts he should be having about her should be ones involving masochism, near-death, torture. Thoughts of tying her up, etching long, deep marks in her skin with a rusted over razor blade and taking in the sweet, seductive sound of her screams muffled by a piece of ducttape…NO…a strip of metal! That would be some freakin' poetic justice alright! Those are the kind of thoughts he should have been having.

Okay, maybe not quite that sadistic.

"Focus," he muttered to himself. He wasn't sticking around to kill her, or take some kind of sick, perverse joy from tormenting her in the grossly creative way possible. He may have been pretty bad a times…okay, at  _most_  times. But he wasn't  _that_  twisted. What he wanted with Lydia Deetz was what she had promised him. He wanted out. And he wasn't going to get out by threatening her, though the devil knew how badly he wanted to.

So torture was out, threatening was out…that left one thing. And that one thing left a sickeningly disgusting taste in his mouth. He sneered and snapped his fingers, summoning a bottle of beer and taking a long pull. Talking with a human. How the hell was he supposed to have a serious, worth-while conversation with someone who could still breathe? With someone that didn't understand what being dead was really like? With someone who, for all he knew, loathed his non-existence.

His feet left the ground and he crossed his legs, resting his elbows on them and letting his beer bottle hang lazily from his fingertips. The nails of his other hand drummed on the glass and he frowned as he thought, purposely ignoring that damned mirror. This entire fuckin' scenario was going to be tricky. He hated tricky. Tricks…yes. Tricky…not so much.

A soft, sultry moan drew his attention. He turned his head slowly, attempting to look bored for no one's benefit really but his own.

Lydia had turned on the bed and now lay curled on her right side. The quilt had slid from one long leg, exposing the limb to the hungry light of the moon. Her toenails were painted, he noticed. Not black, but a shimmering, feminine red. And there was simple band of silver around her second toe. She shifted again, flipping onto her back.

What the hell…he didn't remember her being such a restless sleeper.

The shirt crept up, revealing an indistinguishable tattoo riding just above her hipbone. He uncrossed his legs and levitated closer to the mirror, his interest piqued. As he tilted his head to the side, attempting to catch a better glimpse of the mark. It was then that she frowned, her full lips pursing, her dark brows lowering.

"Beetlejuice…."

His eyes went wide, one brow arching high. "Whaaa-?"

Another soft moan and she settled, snuggling into her pillow, the faintest of smiles erasing the consternation that had marred her delicate features only for a moment.

"Well," he murmured. A sinister grin curled his dry, cracked lips and his eyes albeit glowed with a feral light. Things had just gotten very,  _very_  interesting

* * *

The sun violated her sleep, pulling her insistently from a night blissfully lacking any dreams. She screwed her eyes shut, willing the light to go away. Of course, it wouldn't. And the only way it would was if she forced herself out of bed and drew the thick drapes over the French doors, blocking it out. She would have to be awake for that. She didn't  _want_  to be awake. For once she hadn't dreamt of him. Hadn't dreamt of his hands on her body, of his dry, dead lips on her flesh, she hadn't woke up slick with her own sweat, shaking, and frighteningly confused. She had just…slept.

_Wakey, wakey…_

"Piss off," she muttered, flipping onto her side and throwing her arm over her eyes.

_Shift a little more to the right and you're gonna make it a hell of a good mornin' for me, babes._

With a gasp, she sat up, her hands instinctively going to the hem of her shirt and yanking it down. She looked around wildly, hair hanging in her eyes, her cheeks flushed from a combination of sleep and mortification. The room was empty. No ghouls lurking in the corners, no grotesque smiling face in the mirror. She was completely alone.

"My God, I'm losing it…" she muttered, shoving her hair out of her face.

Throwing the blankets back, she swung her legs over the bed. It never struck her for one moment as she left her room that she hadn't pulled the blanket over herself the previous night to begin with. She padded downstairs and made a beeline for the coffee maker, stumbling to a stop when she saw it was already full.

"What the-." She slowly crossed the kitchen and placed her hand against the pot, jerking it back when she found it hot. Had she set the delay? No. That wasn't something she did unless she had to be up in the morning and wanted coffee ready. And this coffee maker…she couldn't remember if it had a delay function or not.

Gritting her teeth, annoyed over the fact that not only was there coffee ready for her but also that her suspicions concerning a certain ghost had been confirmed, she grabbed the pot and dumped the contents into the sink. As the darkened water sloshed nearly over the basin, she swore she could hear a soft cackling from behind her. Her shoulders tensed. Bracing one hand on the counter, she closed her eyes, took a fortifying breath, then set the pot in the sink and refilled it.

_What a waste of perfectly good coffee. I was just tryin' to be nice._

"Right," she muttered as she poured the water into the percolator, then dumped the grounds and refilled them. "Because that's what you're known for - being nice."

_I said tryin'._

"Try harder." She whirled around, eyes narrowed and studying the room. Empty. "Where are you?"

Silence stretched on into obscurity and again, she started to doubt her sanity. But the coffee…

She glanced back at the pot, watching the new coffee spill in a steady stream, the splash against the bottom of the pot the only sound. No, she hadn't had a thing to do with that. He was here.

"Just being a dick," she muttered, turning and pulling a coffee cup from the cabinet beside the sink. Again she heard the distant cackle, though this time she chose to ignore it. She filled her cup, then pulled up a seat at the kitchen table and sank into it.

Her spot gave her a direct view into the front rooms – the ones that had been reserved for Adam and Barbara. The early morning sunlight slanted over the floorboards, dust dancing along the bright beams. Thick dust. That probably wasn't the best thing. Then again, the entire house was in need of a good clean. Her father had hired help when they had first left the house shortly after Lydia had gone off to college. But after two years his attention to the process of selecting and paying decent help for upkeep of the house had become lax. It made her sad, to look upon something that had once been the personification of edgy home décor and see just how little her parents cared about maintaining it.

Though…if she were going to be fair, she couldn't really blame them. Once Lydia had selected her college, applied and been accepted, her parents eagerness to get the hell out of the house they had poured so much into had been obvious. They'd seen too much there, experience the paranormal and the horrors of the beyond to a point that even allowing Lydia to constantly interact with the Maitlands hadn't been something they were entirely comfortable with. The only thing that should have surprised her was the fact that it had taken three weeks instead of one for her parents to vacate the premises.

Using the chair opposite her as a foot rest, Lydia leaned back in hers and wrapped her hands around her mug. She didn't think her parents would ever sell. The house was too close to where she was for them to ever think about selling it. Though her and Delia were on the outs now, her father still kept the house open for her just in case she needed to "escape the city." However, if they did sell…there was no way anyone would show it in this condition. And the Maitlands things really should have been put into storage, not collecting dust like some unwanted past-life paraphernalia.

She tilted her head to the side, contemplating her options. Staying wouldn't be a horrible idea. It wasn't like she was needed in Hartford. A simple phone call to a local phone or satellite company and she could be hooked up with internet service which was all she really needed to run her business and keep in contact with her clients. She could stick around, clean up the house, take a much needed reprieve from the commotion of steady city activity. She could ensure that Adam and Barbara's things were cared for with the respect they deserved and put away in the house where they belonged, not shipped off to goodwill.

_You could see him...see if he really_ is _here._

She jerked up, gasping softly at the sudden, unexpected thought. No! He had nothing to do with her staying here. She wanted to take care of the house, of  _her_  house. She wanted to make sure that Barbara and Adam's things were well taken care of. It had nothing,  _nothing_  to do with that sadistic, crude, disgusting  _ghost!_

_Keep telling yourself that,_  the treacherous voice murmured, sounding almost amused.

And she did. Throughout the remainder of the day, as she made phone calls to clients and local businesses to make arrangements, she forcefully reminded herself that she was not staying in the house just to be near what she was still debating was or wasn't a figment of her imagination. After an hour of arguing with herself, followed by an hour childish internal tantrums, she resigned herself to a simple dull mantra of " _not here for him, not here for him, not here for him"_ as she set her own affairs straight and arranged time slots for satellite and internet connections, checked the propane level on the tank in the backyard and called the local distributor for a fill.

Satisfied that she had tied up every loose end, she stood in the foyer between the Maitlands' rooms and the renovated portion of the house. Hesitation to face the loss of Adam and Barbara, to pack them away for safe keeping, stalled her from making a move in either direction. For one brief, desperate moment, she wished for that damn voice to tell her what to do. Of course, it didn't say a thing. Voices belonging to twisted imaginations never did when you were actually looking for them to.

She finally turned from the older setting, deciding that she couldn't face the emptiness today. She would put it off…again. Instead, she would work on cleaning the year's worth of dust and grime from the home her parents had remodeled.

With the stereo in the living room cranked to its full potential on a station that played a random mix of anything that would keep her from getting sick, she poured her time into dusting, sweeping, moping and vacuuming, not stopping until each surface, each floor, each cupboard looked as it had when they had first been moved into the house.

By the time she was finished, the sun was sinking into the horizon and her stomach was reminding her that all she'd managed to put in her system the entire day was coffee. She trudged back to the kitchen, her skin feeling decidedly grimy.

While washing the ruminants of hours worth of cleaning from her skin, she tried to decide on who to call for some decent delivery. The usual fast food places came to mind along with the pitiful amount of pizza delivery places. She sneered at each one of them, grabbing a nail brush and scrubbing the dirt out from under her nails. She wasn't in the mood for fast food, or pizza, or Thai food, or Chinese food.

Flipping the tap off, she turned to the table and picked up her cell, using it to do a quick search on anything else available in the area. Sure, there were phone books – but with the house being empty for as long as it had been, she was certain that it was dated and that half of the establishments no longer existed. Within five minutes she had found a Japanese restaurant that had earned several good reviews and had ordered enough sushi for four people.

Order placed, she tossed her phone back onto the table and reached for the pack of discarded cigarettes. She pulled one free, lit it, then grabbed a small ashtray from one of the many junk drawers and wandered the house aimlessly. Inspecting her thorough job – that was her excuse. But her eyes lingered towards ceilings, mirrors and dark corners. They lingered…expecting to see something, anything.

_Lookin' for me?_

She whirled around and in her haste, caught her hip on a high display table. Swearing profusely, she rubbed at the spot, glaring around the room. "No," she lied.

_Right…not buyin' it babes._

"What are you doing here?"

_What are YOU doing here? The Maitlands'r gone. Dead, dead, deadski._  He taunted her, throwing her careless echo of his words form years ago at her.  _So what'r you still hangin' around for?_

"The place needs to be cleaned up if we're ever going to sell it." Another lie. But this one worked. He fell silent and remained that way for the rest of the evening. Through the appearance of the young, slightly afraid looking delivery boy, through her meal, through the clean up after. He was so quiet that she fooled herself into believing that he was gone. Fooled herself into believing that he'd returned to the Afterlife so she could enjoy a soak in the indoor hot tub in peace.

She didn't bother with a bathing suit. What was the point? She was in her own house and supposedly alone. After filling a glass with wine and taking a moment to wonder whether or not she may be a closet alcoholic, she wandered back to the newest addition her father had splurged on before moving out – an extravagant half deck overlooking the town of Winter River. Windows bowed around in a half circle and the middle of that circle was an enormous hot tub that both she and Delia, amazingly enough, had tried to talk her father out of. Now, staring at it and wondering idly why this one room seemed well cared for when the rest of the house had gone to waste, she was glad her father had ignored them. After the week she'd had a good, long soak was just what she needed.

Deciding to leave the lights off, she pulled the cover from the hot tub and was greeted with muted lighting waving below the blue-green surface of water. She tested it, surprised further still to find the water alluringly hot. Surprise never gave away to apprehensive questioning. Setting her glass of wine on the edge, she flicked the switch to start the jets, then pulled her shirt off and tossed it aside. Quick to follow were her jeans and last her bra and underwear. She stepped into the hot tub, the water lapping at her bare skin, then sank down with a blissful sigh until she was seated right in front of a jet. She dropped her head back, closed her eyes. It didn't take long before the tears started.

The week had been wearing on her. Her work was demanding, her clients even more so, her deadlines were too close together and her agent had almost gotten himself a restraining order due to the borderline harassment to meet them. As it were, she was seriously considering getting rid of him all together and hiring a new one. That added to the disturbing dreams and the loss of Adam and Barbara, a quiet house with no distractions….

Lydia allowed herself to, for the first time in years, quietly fall apart.


	3. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lydia lies (not to her parents ;) ) and Beetlejuice hears voices.

**Chapter Three: Lies**

Selling the house? There was no way in hell Charles Deetz would sell. Beetlejuice didn't know the guy personally but what he did know of him after years of haunting and dropping in on 'Ol Chucky from time to time for a good scare, was one thing – Charles Deetz was a property monger. There was no way he would be giving up a prime piece of real estate in the heart of Connecticut, especially when the house landed on one of the largest lots the small town had to offer. The Deetz house dominated the hillside overlooking Winter River. It was the first thing a person saw when driving in and due to the eccentric additions, it commanded attention. No, Chuck Deetz wouldn't just up and sell this place. So what was she playing at?

Vacating his rooms where he had been idly floating about, riding the euphoric high that came with taunting little Miss Lydia, he made his way back into the world of the living, interested to find out just what she was up to now. Watching her clean all day had been decidedly boring. Though he had to admit he enjoyed the choice of wardrobe that went with it – low rise jeans and a simple black shirt cut so that every time she reached up to dust a high shelf or picture on the wall half of her enticing midriff was revealed. And the way her hair was cut at an angle – longer in the front, shorter in the back, the glossy strands catching the sunlight….

He might have been dead but he was still a man and any man in his right mind would appreciate the sight of a toned stomach, a teasing upward curve of ribs, dark hair hanging in dark eyes, contrasting with smooth porcelain and work-flushed cheeks.

_Alright…tone it the fuck down Beej. You're not some romantic, pathetic sap._

But…she had a rock solid body he wouldn't mind bending in quite a few different directions. Of course, there was that fact that she'd quite literally screwed him over and as much as he didn't mind thinking of her in all the wrong ways…he would much rather think about screwing her over in much the same manner.

 _Getting a sandworm involved_ , he mused as he moved through the quiet house.  _Now that would be risky…_

The sound of the jets from the hot tub caught his attention. Caught it and piqued his interest.  _Haven't heard that thing runnin' since the last time…_

He shuddered, trying to repress the memory moving in for a late night freak-out session only to have been the one freaking out. Turned out Delia Deetz had a freaky side to her. And even more surprising? Charles Deetz did too. Turned out that freaky side existed in bondage and scalding hot water. Beetlejuice had spent the rest of the evening trying not to be sick. The fact that he was sick, being  _who_  he was, said a lot.

"Fuckin' gross," he muttered, moving closer to the source and turning his mind instead to thoughts of tormenting the Lil' Miss. A lot could be done in a hot tub. He could crank up the heat a bit, really put some flush in that pale skin of hers. Or he could fill it with some funky mixture of grave dirt and three week old garbage. That would be a decent start.

Entering the room, he came to a sudden stop. There was a shirt laying on the floor…a shirt that looked entirely far too familiar. Next to that… a pair of jeans. His gaze traveled further as he slowly floated into the dark confines of the room, landing on the deep burgundy bra and matching slip of a thong lying haphazardly beside the hot tub. And then….thoughts of gruesome torment gave way to thoughts of erotic torment as he stared down at a very nude Lydia Deetz. The bubbling water and lights obscured the fine lines but he didn't need them to fully comprehend what he was seeing – long legs, pale, glowing skin, a decent rack that she must have grown over the past few years because he sure as shit didn't remember seeing  _those_  the last time she was home.

A sudden image of her squirming and writhing, moaning as she arched over the side of the hot tub in pleasure burned through his mind. He could control the water, carefully tease her into spreading those legs and giving him a better look at what she had to offer. He could get her distracted enough to not notice him manipulating her hand down between those legs. He wouldn't mind watching that mouth work, listening to her beg for more.

She shifted suddenly, sighing and sitting up. Lifting her head, she reached for her glass of wine, took a long drink, then set it aside. She drew a deep breath and he was distracted by the teasing lift of her full breasts for only a moment before her heard the shudder in her released breath. He glanced up and frowned. She was crying. She wasn't…sobbing….or making any noise for that matter. What he'd mistaken for sweat was actually tears – several of them trickling steadily down her rosy cheeks.

Her lids fluttered open and he noticed, with mild surprise, that her eyes were much darker than he'd first thought they were. Her tears made them a rich dark chocolate color. He would kick himself for it later, call himself every goddamned name in the book for being even the slightest bit sentimental…but before he could stop himself…

_What's with the waterworks?_

Lydia only let her head fall back before rolling it back and forth in a show of denial. "Are you here or are you not here?" she muttered.

He grinned.  _That is the question…._

Her eyes opened, narrowed, shined with barely concealed hostility. And damned if he wasn't the slightest bit turned on by it.

"What do you want from me?"

_Whatever you wanna offer, Babes._

She snorted softly. "Gross." She slid further into the water. Her fingers toyed with the stem of her wine glass.

_So what gives?_

"Can't a girl just have a bad week?" she muttered, then added quietly, closing her eyes and furrowing her brow. "Week…month…year…whatever."

He tilted his head, scrutinizing her. Well, if she was going to be all morose and self-pitying, it wasn't going to be much fun terrorizing her. Sneering, he pulled his legs up and crossed them, then rested his elbows on them.

 _That bad,_  he asked before he could even stop himself.

What hardly passed for a smile curved her full lips. "I'm sitting here talking to you. That answer your question?"

A confusing mix of contempt and admiration welled up within him. Admiration? What the fuck…for  _this?_ This pathetic woman crying because she'd had a hard week!  _Sick,_  he muttered, unaware that he'd said it out loud.

"What?" She sat up suddenly, uncaring of her lack of clothing. The fingers that had gently been toying with the wine glass tightened around it and she lifted it to her lips, draining the contents before setting the glass down. "Why are you here?"

_Told ya…collectin' an old debt._

"You honestly expect me to believe that you've been hanging around this empty house for years waiting for me to come back just to make me pay up? Even after what happened the last time you showed up for the same damn thing? I'm not buying it.  _Why_  are you here?"

He almost said the truth…that he didn't know why he was there. He had always figured he'd been sent back to this hellhole because of his ties to the Deetz girl and their yet-to-be-completed marriage. Half the vows had been spoken. They'd been one fucking kiss away from sealing the deal and getting him out of the other world for good. Was half a ceremony enough to hold him? Juno had never said. In fact, she'd been about as fucking vague as the bitch could get – giving him no specifics. Hell, she hadn't even looked at him when he'd walked into her office. Just a quick enough glance to recognize the clothing followed by a curt nod and a muttered, "Get out of my office." Then she'd sent him…here. Of all fucking places…here. Back to the damn house where the boring Maitlands provided him  _no_  entertainment. Hell, after several years even scaring the shit out of Chuck had gotten old.

"Forget it," Lydia suddenly muttered, pulling him from his thoughts. The sound of splashing water gained his full attention and a lecherous grin pulled at his pale features as he watched her move out of the tub, almost leisurely grabbing a towel and wrapping it around herself.

Fuck…she really did have one hell of a body. His gaze traveled lazily over the long legs, the flared hips, a slender torso, the tattoo…

His eyes flared with barely concealed hostility. A pagan protection symbol…with a black and white striped snake for the circle. That little, meddling, stuck up, emo bitch! Did she honestly think some ink would stop  _him?_ Beetlejuice? Nothing could fucking stop him and he would show her just how masochistic he could be, make her feel like an idiot for ever believing that a god damn tattoo would  _ever_  be able to protect her.

Beetlejuice rubbed his hands together, suddenly overcome with inspiration. Hell, he was going to enjoy this. Probably more than he should have. He was going to drain every bit of fear from her, then take perverse pleasure in seeing just how much of a deviant she was by proving to her and him that part of her, some twisted, dark, deep seeded part…wanted him , then he was going to drag her back into the pit of sheer, desperate horror. In short…he was going to have a damn good time….and she was going to pay.

A quick crack of the knuckles and he started after her.

_Don't do it…_

He stopped, frowning in confusion. What the hell…

_Leave the girl be. At least until you understand…_

Okay, this was messed up. He was the ghost here. And yet…he was hearing voices? That didn't make any sense. He waited for another "warning", distantly registering the sound of Lydia's bedroom door shutting. When none came, he muttered a few hateful choice words under his breath. But he didn't follow Lydia. And that night the house remained quiet.


	4. Boo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Beetlejuice shows Lydia she's not crazy.

_"You know what I'm doin' here."_

_"Do I?" She smiled, keeping her eyes closed, leaving her hands to rest on the pillow above her head. "I'm not sure I do. You should tell me."_

_A touch of damp cold to her neck, the lightest caress of fingernails raking up her side. She shivered. But not in fear…in delight. Where her body was heated, his cold touch cooled. He seemed to know just how to touch her, just where to touch her to drive those sane, rational thoughts from her mind._

_"I'm here to collect, darlin'" he growled in some exaggerated accent that made her laugh._

_She opened her eyes, boldly staring death in the face. His dark, hungry eyes met hers and he grinned – a flash of decay that should have disgusted her. Everything about him should have disgusted her. His manners, his lank, dirty hair, his deathly pale skin, his dirty nails, his hygiene…everything should have repulsed her. It never did though._

It never will. I'm just messed up that way,  _she thought as she reached up and framed his face with her hands. "Then collect," she whispered, pulling him down._

_He made a noise. Whether it was a purr or a growl, she couldn't tell. She didn't care. His lips met hers – cold and dry – and her entire body reacted, arching to his touch, yielding to his demands._

" _Never liked this color. Hating it on you."_

_She looked down, frowning in confusion at the splash of hot pink and black lace barely managing to cover her. It was almost ugly against her pale skin. Pink…why was she in pink?_

" _Easily taken care of…"_

_A simple graze of blood-red tipped nails over the monstrosity and it turned to shimmering pink liquid, sliding away from her with gentle reverence. Her eyelids fluttered shut, hiding her from the look of ravaged hunger. She shuddered with an intoxicating mixture of apprehension and anticipation. It wasn't him she feared. It was never him - even though it should have been. She should have shoved him away, denied him. The only terrifying thing about this scenario though…was how desperately she craved his attention, his affection, his touch. In the simplest terms…how much she craved him._

" _Lyds…"_

_A faint smirk curled her lips. She kept her eyes closed. "Beej…"_

" _Can't even bring yourself to look at me, huh?"_

_Her eyes flew open, dark and serious. "I'm not afraid to look at you."_

_He gave her a devastating, slow smile that caused something deep within her to shriek with unadulterated insatiability. She let it take control, using her legs to flip him over and move into a position of dominance. She straddled him, feeling the chill of his skin between her thighs and gasping._

" _Into a little necrophilia, huh babes? Kinky," he muttered with a sadistic twist of his dark lips._

" _Fuck you," she returned, smiling as she ran her hands over his muscular chest. She loved to see what he'd been hiding from her, all the muscles and sinew, the youth suppressed by dust and grime, by poorly fitted clothing and ill-concealed innuendos._

" _You dig it." He caught one of her hands, brought it to his mouth. His tongue flicked out to taste the tip before his lips and teeth closed around it._

_Lydia shivered, her eyelids sliding shut as her head dropped back. His hands were at her hips – strong…capable. They tugged her forward slowly until she felt him hard against her aching flesh. She bit her bottom lip, drawing blood and as he pushed into her. He levered up and captured her lips in a hungry kiss, tongue greedily seeking the red staining them. She closed her arms around his shoulders, pressed herself against him, drew him further and further-._

Lydia jerked up in bed, drenched in sweat, her body burning. Gasping for breath, she pressed a hand to her forehead. What the  _hell?_

She started to throw aside the comforter stifling her then thought better of it and pulled it tightly around her. That feeling that she wasn't alone was raising the fine hairs along her neck. She could feel eyes on her. Her paranoia started to eat at her, mixing potently with the lingering excitement and sudden chill of fear.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. She hesitated for only a moment, then tossed the comforter aside, letting irritation seep into her and overpower the turmoil of other, unwanted emotions. There was an annoying monotony in what she was doing – thinking he was there, then doubting her sanity. A stop needed to be put to it. And not a gradual one. The stop would happen now.

Reaching for the nightstand, she jerked open the drawer. It still sat there, collecting dust in the far corner – the skeleton key that opened each door in the house…including the attic. She twisted out of bed and went to her closet, pulling a long, violet satin robe from the hook behind the door. Clutching the key tightly, she slipped the robe over what little she wore, shivering slightly at the feel of cool fabric against her heated skin. Aggravated footsteps carried her from her room and towards the attic. She imagined that if she walked fast enough, if she let her anger over the confusion of being here fuel her enough…she wouldn't have time to rethink what she was doing.

She made it up the first short flight of stairs to the landing midway up the attic without having an anxiety attack. However, when she reached the landing, when her gaze traveled hesitantly to the attic door, panic closed in on her like a vulture swooping down for it's pray. She stood, her numb hand clutching the skeleton key until its worn edges bit into her palm. The walls felt like they were closing in around her. Her breath was erratic, so much so that she doubted whether or not she was actually breathing.

"Don't be stupid, Lydia," she muttered, shaking her head. "Even if he is here…he can't do anything to you sitting in a model." She squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. "Can't do anything," she repeated softly, then forced herself to move up the next flight of stairs.

The key fit into the lock with nothing more than a hissing scrape of metal on metal. She unlocked it, then gripped the doorknob. The door silently swung inward with nothing more than a tiny shove. Letting the last of her anxieties fade into the deep recess of her mind, she moved into the attic - the place they had first met – her searching for the Maitlands, him enjoying some downtimes at that  _joke_  of a brothel. Each memory paraded its way over her subconscious as she passed over the threshold.

The original model had been left abandoned on sawhorses, the wood holding it bowing slightly towards the floor. A thick layer of dust shrouded the miniature town. It covered every inch of the attic but her gaze was fixed on the model. It looked…desolate. Had the situation been different, had the memories from so long ago not haunted her mind, taking up far too much space…she may have felt sadness for such art gone to waste.

With a near absentmindedness, Lydia placed a fingertip on one of the many wooden beams supporting the unfinished basement. She dragged her finger gently over the surface. Even parallel positioning couldn't mask the proof of how long this room had stood empty.

Her eyes traveled the expanse of the room, looking in corners, at cloth covered furniture. She was avoiding direct contact with the model…which was…again, "Ridiculous. Jeez, just look already, Lyds."

Pivoting slowly on one foot and vaguely thinking of just how filthy her socks were going to be once she left the room, she glared down at Adam's creation. "Alright…where are you?"

She scanned the sagging plywood, the small replicas of a town that had surpassed the simple spread before her years ago, the cryptic graveyard. Her eyes lingered here, narrowing slightly. "Come out, you piece of shit poltergeist."

Silence. Nothing more than the faint howl of winter wind slipping through the window. Lydia wrapped her arms around herself. She waited, muscles tense, for a sign of anything. I breath, a creek, a familiar and maniacal cackle. And still…nothing. Her mind started arguing with itself again. It was becoming a very tiring game. She hunched her shoulders, shivering slightly as the arctic breeze sneaking through the thin windows nipped at her.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the window pane. It forced the attic door to swing back and a loud  _bang_ shattered the silence. With a startled gasp, Lydia spun, digging her nails into her arms. Wide eyes stared at the door and again, a numbing cold swept over her. The walls started pressing in on her again. When she started to breathe again, her breaths were short and tight, forced past the lump of dread firmly lodged in her esophagus.

"Damn it," she muttered with a firm shake of her head. Cursing herself for being such a fool, she strode quickly to the door, jerked it open with nearly enough force to rip it from its hinges, then stormed out, slamming the door loudly behind her.

* * *

A sick grin twisted Beetlejuice's mouth as he watched Lydia storm out of the attic. He'd been taking quite a bit of pleasure in driving the young woman to the brink of insanity. He could see her struggling with herself – wondering if he was there, wondering if she was losing it. Yesterday it had been a riot. Today…it was already starting to get old. She was only getting mad and he was only growing more frustrated by the second with how intriguing he was finding this older, more mature and filled out Lydia to be. He weighed the thought of tormenting her further against the thought of actually letting her know he was there. Tricky, tricky….which was the lesser of two evils?

But she looked so damn good when she was irritated, when those dark eyes were all narrow and pissed off. Seeing her annoyed was enough of a rush to make him wonder…how gorgeous she would look when good and furious.

"Only one way to find out," he muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together. "It's show time."

In a matter of seconds he was standing in the mirror, making himself comfortable against the edge as Lydia came strutting in. She made for the connecting bathroom and he gave up the pretense of not being there. As she passed the mirror her eyes darted over it and he grinned, lifting a hand in greeting. "Hey, Babes."

The reaction was immediate and mostly due to shock, he was sure. He'd caught her off guard. But Lydia Deetz had never, much to his irritation and regret, been afraid of him. She whipped around at the sound of his voice, a startled scream escaping her. In her haste she'd tripped over her own feet and landed quite ungraciously on her ass, legs slightly akimbo. "Nothin' sexier than an uncoordinated woman," he drawled, eyeing her position appreciatively.

"God  _damn it!"_  she yelled, awkwardly shoving herself back up. He didn't notice the clumsy way she moved though. All he could see was the hostility blazing in her eyes, the teeth bared, the tension in every muscle of her body. She was a knock out to begin with, but man…when she got good and furious, she was the hottest thing, living or dead, that he'd ever seen.

"Pretty sure the big guy's already damned me. Few times, probably." He leaned more fully against the frame, his gaze riveted on what he deemed one of Lydia's finer aspects. "Damn babes, anyone ever told ya how much of a turn on you are when you're pissed?"

"You're actually here," she deadpanned.

"Thought you knew that."

"No. I didn't think-." Her glare became, if possible, even more fierce. "You've been…toying with me. You fucking shit!" She whirled and went for her nightstand, grabbing the hairbrush resting beside her alarm clock and lifting it above her head as she turned once again to face him.

Beetlejuice chuckled. "Yeah, Babes…do that. Break the mirror. It ain't gonna stop me. Besides, you really wanna spend the rest of the day pickin' glass out of the carpet?" Her hand fell to her side. "That's what I thought."

"I told you before…I'm not going to marry you. So why… _why_ …are you still here?"

"Because," he snarled, bracing his hands on his desk and leaning forward, "I'm fucking stuck here. Purgatory for screwin' with those stick-in-the-mud shitheads Barb and Adam and trying to get married to your sorry ass."

"Watch it," Lydia warned in a low voice.

"Or what?" His lips curled in a sneer. "The only thing  _you_  can do, Lyds…is ignore me. And you've already failed at that."

"It'd be a lot easier if you'd stop being so fucking annoying." She went back to the nightstand, tossing down the hairbrush and trading it for a pack of cigarettes. She pulled one from the pack, lit it, then went back to the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the four posts jutting up toward the ceiling.

They stared at each other in mutinous silence, neither willing to take the first step towards what might be considered semi-friendly conversation.

"When the fuck did you start smoking," Beetlejuice finally grumbled.

"Why?" She took a long drag, blew it out and smiled evilly. "You want one?"

"Piss off."

She chuckled softly, the melodic sound taking him entirely off guard. In the length of time he'd known Lydia Deetz, he'd never… _never…_ heard her actually laugh. And if he was going to be honest with himself…he  _hated_ being honest with himself…but the sound was…

 _Fuck me,_  he thought, schooling his features into a hardened glare. The damn sound was as beautiful as she was. He dug his nails into the hardened surface of the desk, taking only a mild amount of satisfaction when the wood gave and cracked in protest.

The smile suddenly faded, replaced by a searching look that got under her skin. She looked interested. Not angry, not scared...but interested. She levered herself away from the post and slowly started toward him. "Why did you end up stuck here?"

"Damned if I know," he muttered with a careless shrug. He pried his nails from the grooves they'd formed with a tiny grunt, then levitated into the air, crossing his legs and settling his elbows on them. "Probably because I can't do a damn thing around here. The Maitlands are… _were_ ," he corrected, "a buncha stiffs. And you're parents…oblivious as fuck. Can't get a decent scare outta anyone here. It's boring."

"Hm, poor you," Lydia murmured dryly. But she moved closer. Sinking down into the small backless chair in front of the vanity, she pulled an ashtray from the drawer and set it down.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, watching her. The image of her twisting in bed and saying his name was still fresh in his mind. He almost wanted to ask her about it. Almost. He didn't need to sound like some pathetic, desperate, hormonal teen seeking out a woman's affections.  _Hell_  no.

"What are you doin' here anyway, Babes?"

"I told you. We're selling-."

"Yeah…I'm havin' a hard time believing you. Your dad wouldn't give up a place like this. 'Specially after all the work Delia forced him to put into it. Try again."

Irritation briefly crossed over her face, like a cloud over the sun on a blustery day - there and gone in under a second. She sighed and dropped her elbow to the vanity. The silence stretched as she took a long drag of her cigarette, combed her hair out of her eyes, made him impossibly uncomfortable watching every action.

"I feel like…like I owe it to Barb and Adam to make sure their things don't get buried here or sent off to goodwill. They were like family to me." She looked down at her hands and added in a cynical murmur, "More than my own dad and step-mom ever were."

Beetlejuice wasn't comfortable with human displays of emotion. Not in the slightest. Emotion equaled weakness as far as he was concerned and weakness was about as disgusting as being clean. "Forgot you people did stuff like that."

"Stuff like what?" She looked up, her dark eyes wary. Wary…and  _damn it_ …captivating.

"Care." He spat the word out and curled his lip at the very feel of it tripping off his tongue. Caring…gross. "They're gone. Not like they're ever gonna notice you pickin' up after them and stashin' their stuff away."

"I know that," she snapped. She closed her eyes, pursing her lips slightly, then let out a slow breath and opened them again. "But it matters to me."

He shrugged. He could care less what sentimental attachment had brought her back. "How long ya stickin' around for?"

"Not as long as you," she muttered smartly, her lips tightening as she tried to fight back a grin.

He almost laughed…almost. "Funny, babes. Real fuckin' funny. Make fun of a guy stuck in this shithole."

With a roll of her eyes she took another drag, then purposely blew it towards the mirror. The smoke furled lazily up the glass. His overactive hormones briefly pictured that the smoke was her fingers, reaching for him, lacquered nails tugging playfully at the buttons on his jacket…his shirt…his pants.

Gritting his teeth, he silently commanded his libido to shut the hell up. "Where'd you find a sense of humor?"

She shrugged, then finally relented a smile that softened her considerably. "Somewhere along the lines."

He snorted, not trusting himself to say one word. If he did, he knew he'd mutter some disgusting crap about how nice it was to see her smile. He'd utter some half-truth that would make him look like a total sap and Beetlejuice was  _not_  some sap! Even if those damn legs were a lot longer than he ever remembered them being and the robe she was wearing had fallen open and given him the most mouth-watering view he'd seen in a long,  _long_  time. He didn't count Delia Deetz as a mouth watering view. He counted her as a shrill, lypo-ed up bitch in heat. Lydia though….damn she was class all over.

"You're being conversational."

Beetlejuice started, unaware that he'd been appreciating the view a little too obviously. "Huh?"

"You…you're actually talking to me. And not about a damn deal or any of that crap that happened years ago." She tilted her head to the side, regarding him with that same, endearing interest she'd approached him with. "You up to something?"

"No."  _Fuck…always say yes!_

"Really?" Her smile widened. "I find that hard to believe. You…Mr. Ghost With the Most…up to nothing?"

 _Spiteful little bitch. Time to test her…see just what's goin' on in that twisted mind of hers._ "Let me out and I'll be up to a whole lot of bad things." He uncrossed his legs, lowered himself to the floor, then braced his hands on the table, leaning forward. "Most of them involving everything you're hiding under that robe."

She went still, her eyes widening. And he saw it. It was only a second before it was gone and she was back to looking like that pissed off temptress. But in that second he'd seen exactly what he wanted to see – excitement.

_Got ya, Babes._

"You're such a pig," she hissed, grinding out her cigarette before pulling her robe tight around her and standing.

"Lean forward like that again," he leered, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"There is no way in hell I would ever give you the pleasure of seeing-." The doorbell cut her off and she frowned, whirling toward the sound as if she almost expected whoever was there to be standing at her bedroom door. "Who even knows I'm here? You," she turned to point a non-threatening finger at him, "stay here."

"Yeah, because I really have a choice in the matter," he muttered.

"You know what I mean." Cinching the belt of her robe, she swept out of the room.

Beetlejuice pushed himself away from the mirror, half annoyed with her demands, half annoyed by the simple fact that he didn't mind watching her walk away in the slightest. Well, he did mind…but the view was really-.

"Damn it!" His head quickly and brutally landed where his hands had been, thwacking solidly against the surface of the desk. Damn the little brat for getting to him like this! This wasn't how it was supposed to be! Anything related to Lydia Deetz was supposed to involve vengeance and brutality…not-, "Whatever the hell this is."

Sluggishly pulling himself up, he sighed. He could hear Lydia's light footsteps descending the stairs. She had told him to stay where he was. When did he ever listen? Especially to her?

With a grin, he ghosted his way down to the main floor, intent on correcting her little assumption that she could control him.


End file.
